“Of course! I quite see your point,—I understand. I feel it myself. Possibly you don’t realise that, eh? I feel it myself!”
Dr. Maynard’s hand went over his eyes, shading them from the fire.
“Such a bright little girl!” he murmured. “Always about the house—always with a smile and kind word for every one! I don’t know how I shall get on without her!”
The vision of a fair little face—the memory of a hand pressure and whispered word “Take care of him,” came over the mind of the Philosopher, and he rose to the occasion.
“How you’ll get on without her?” he echoed. “Why, you’ll get on famously for the short time you’re asked to do it. God bless me! One would think the girl had gone for good! She’ll be back again in a fortnight—trust her for that! And you’ll walk about triumphantly as the proud papa of a millionairess. How will you like that?”
The old doctor looked up at him rather wistfully.
“I don’t think the part will suit me!” he said. “For one thing, Craig—I can tell you I’ve put by enough money to leave Sylvia quite well off on her own account—she would not have needed all this wealth—”
The Philosopher gave himself a mental rap. “I always thought so!” he said, inwardly. “The old boy has plenty—I knew he had!”
“I never spent much on myself,” went on Maynard. “I meant to afford the expenses of my book—though I felt it would be robbing Sylvia of some of her heritage—but when she showed such delight at doing it for me—”
“Exactly!” commented the Philosopher. “She has thought you a sort of literary pauper—that’s her ‘sentiment’! I always told her she was wrong! Just as I told her old Durham was an American Crœsus. I was right—but she wouldn’t believe me. You two fathers are artful dodgers in my opinion! You’ve both been playing poverty—regular old humbugs! I always thought you were!” Here he smiled, genially. “But I felt that if circumstances compelled me to marry Sylvia I should marry quite a nice little fortune!”